


Sugar and Sam (A Solo Interlude)

by karmascars



Series: Bath Time [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Powdered Sugar, Shower Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third part of the Bath Time series. <i>Sugar and a Shower</i>, this time from Sam's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar and Sam (A Solo Interlude)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all your votes! I decided to follow some sage advice indeed, and drag this thing out. Little more realistic that way (or as realistic as these things get). Not gonna give you a road map, though -- you'll just have to subscribe and see. ;) Don't be discouraged. Remember: all roads lead to Wincestiel.
> 
> _New edits as of October 2016._

When Sam picked up powdered donuts on a whim, he hadn't counted on this.   
  
They were a twelve-pack of discounted Entenmann's. The powdered kind aren't Sam's favorite, but donuts are donuts and sometimes a man has to feed his cravings. Dean, of course, agrees wholeheartedly -- by that philosophy is how Dean lives his entire life. The donuts were a choice Dean himself might have made, although more likely they'd have been jelly-filled and accompanied by lewd comments. Because Sam's brother is a gigantic nine-year-old.   
  
He's actually contemplating one of those donuts when Dean announces he's going for a beer run, and Sam squints up at his brother, distracted.   
  
Dean laughs at him; not unkindly, but it's still a little grating. "Gonna need glasses soon, granny."   
  
Sam feels what Dean calls his 'bitchface' forming. He's been researching these ancient signs for what feels like days, his eyes crusty, his entire skin like rubber stretched thick and impeding atop his musculature. 

"Just bring back something we'll both enjoy this time," he says, stretching back over the hard wood of his chair, absently scratching at skin exposed by the slide of his undershirt. "I'm not a fan of that horse piss PBR calls lager."   
  
"One time, Sammy, that was one time," Dean shoots back testily, lacing up his boots with nimble fingers. "And let's not forget who friggin' drank it all."   
  
"Yeah, well," Sam replies easily, bitchface becoming amusement. Sometimes, when he could be sure he needn't fear reprisal, it was fun to rile Dean up. "Just get a craft something, dude."   
  
"Craft." Dean scoffs. "Give the girl her microbrew."   
  
"It's better and you know it," Sam calls as the door swings shut.   
  
He thinks he hears Dean say something back through the wood, but all he catches are the honey-gruff overtones of Dean's voice. 

Stillness settles in their little room. Sam has long since noticed that any room suddenly devoid of Dean's presence feels a little bit like a tomb, like lingering memories of those months Dean spent in Hell. He glances around aimlessly, taking in the nondescript surroundings -- this was, thankfully, one of the few rooms they'd ever stayed in that didn't look like the seventies bombing down off a bad trip -- without really seeing any of it.   
  
Sam's stomach takes that opportunity to gurgle, and he remembers: donuts.   
  
Suddenly, the almost-stale Entenmann's look amazing. Sam is surprised to find himself salivating, just fumbling with the box. The twelve treats inside are each coated in a liberal amount of fluffy sugar. Sam has to pick one up almost daintily between finger and thumb to take a bite. That, and the frankly sexual noise that escapes him when the muted sweetness floods over his tongue, are two very good reasons he's glad that Dean isn't in the room. His brother doesn't need any more ammo; he still cackles about that rabbit's foot ordeal, and the time Sam fell asleep on his laptop and had to walk around all day with a QWERTY pattern stamped into his skin.   
  
He takes another bite, a larger one this time, and his mouth is still full when a multitude of flapping wingbeats announces an angel's arrival. Thankfully, it's their angel, all spacey scowl and backwards tie. 

"Hi, Cas," he says, spraying crumbs and sugar all over his research because he's a moron. Mortified, Sam tries to brush it all off, resulting in smeared sugar and sticky arms. His attempt to chew and swallow quickly is even less successful, and Castiel has to leave off looking at him in confusion to touch his throat with two fingers, easing the blockage and hacking coughs.   
  
Sam clears his throat even though now it's a superfluous gesture, looking up ruefully at the angel, who has turned his frown on the open box of donuts.   
  
Castiel looks good. Like, really good. Healthy. Each time he returns to Heaven and recharges his batteries, he comes back looking like he did when they first met, like new. Sam notes the subtle differences in the way that ridiculous bed mop of hair has chosen to fall this time, and how the wrinkles in the trench coat he'd mapped last time had been replaced by entirely different ones.   
  
Vaguely he wonders if Jimmy Novak reconstitutes around Castiel every time he returns to Earth. If that's actually the hundredth genetic mutation of that khaki fabric and no longer the original in any sense.

_ If you replace the handle then replace the head, is it still the same axe? _   
  
Castiel moves, reaches out to pluck a donut from the case in the exact same manner Sam had moments ago. "What is this?" he asks, curiosity only evident in that flat burr of a voice by virtue of their long acquaintance. Sam smiles, not quite sure why. His lips seem to have a mind of their own. "It's a powdered donut," he replies.   
  
The angel brings the pastry up to his nose and, before Sam can do more than draw breath to warn him, he inhales deeply. Of course, the white powder rockets up Castiel's nostrils, and his expression morphs from shock, to alarm.   
  
Abruptly he sneezes, all over Sam.   
  
"Aw, dude!" Sam groans, laughing, running his sleeve over his face before remembering there's already donut mess on those, too. 

Castiel stares at him, wide-eyed. "Sam, that was unpleasant."   
  
"That was a sneeze," Sam says, wrestling with his overshirt so he can get it off and use it as an impromptu towel. Easier than getting up, and plus, he's not sure he'd want Cas following him to the bathroom. "You've never sneezed before?"   
  
Castiel shakes his head absently, eyes once more fixed on the donut in his hand. He raises it to his lips, tentative, and the soft pink tip of his tongue darts out to taste it.   
  
His eyes alight with joy at the selfsame time that warmth spreads through Sam's veins.   
  
Sam isn't given time to question or diagnose the sensation, not when Cas is licking all of the sugar off the donut, nibbling the cake part here and there before grabbing another from the box. White flakes of sugar drift between, landing to stick on the table, the trench coat, the pale flash of skin on the delicate bones of a wrist --   
  
And now Sam knows what that spreading warmth was. He drops his eyes guiltily, trying to refocus on Mesopotamian curses, but he can still see the angel and the donut through his bangs and the sight is not helping.   
  
Castiel sinks his teeth into one of the cakes properly, chewing, a very human moan escaping around the mouthful. Sam digs blunt fingernails into one denim-clad thigh.   
  
That donut disappears, and Castiel selects another. 

"Sam," he groans, and only a life of hunting stops the involuntary whimper in Sam's throat. "Sam, these are amazing."   
  
_ Casual, stay casual. _ "I know, right?" Sam says, his voice slightly strained. "Help yourself. I really only wanted one, but they were on sale..." He trails off, forcing his eyes back down to the bright laptop screen, squinting at it like narrowing his field of vision will block out the increasingly dusty figure or the erotic noises he's making over a fucking store-bought donut.   
  
There are only two left in the box by the time Dean comes back, and Sam has given himself a headache forcing his gaze to lock on the laptop screen. He looks up when the door opens; first blearily, then with increasing amusement and understanding as he watches Dean take in the sight before him.   
  
Slight dilation of pupils, tightening of grip on the beer case -- not a microbrew, of course. Sam inwardly rolls his eyes -- and, he notices almost unwillingly, a twitching down below his brother's belt. Dean is aroused.

Fantastic.   
  
Castiel hasn't noticed, rattling on about how amazing the donuts are. Dean sets down the beer without a word to Sam, fully focused on the angel. Sam can't blame him -- after all, he's been perving on Cas this whole time -- but he does feel that familiar twinge of _ left out  _ that crops up whenever Dean takes his presence for granted.   
  
Dean's telling Cas to clean himself up. Sam fades back in on the conversation just in time to hear the angel ask excitedly if Dean would help him, "like last time?"   
  
_ Last time?  _ Sam looks at Dean perhaps a little more sharply than he should, but cogs are turning in Dean's head. He barely notices. He does growl, "Not a word," and Sam hopes his expression is something copacetic. Realizing his jaw has dropped open, he closes it with a little snap that somehow echoes in sonar clicks around the room.   
  
Dean strides to meet Castiel at the doorway. They enter, the door shuts -- "I'll just be out here, then," says Sam's mouth without consent from his brain -- and immediately there's the sound of two bodies striking the wood. 

A stifled moan. 

Sam's gut clenches, his balls draw up. He pitches forward to clutch the table. 

His brother and Cas. Well, that's… That's hotter than he thought it would be.   
  
There's the rumble of voices, conversational rhythm. The water starts, spraying down hard and muting most of the sound from within.  So, Sam does the logical thing. 

He moves closer.

Well, he tries. His foot catches on his laptop cord, which is for some reason not where he thought it was, and brings the whole mess from the tabletop down in a crash. 

The laptop survives; Sam checks with ears burning from the shame of what he'd contemplated. There was no reason to -- to do something like that. Sure, he hasn't sought any company in awhile, but it’s not because he’s repressed or anything. Just -- why bother, with such a stellar success rate? 

He's better off here, alone, with the noises of the two most important people in his life getting on just fine without him.   
  
_ Hmm, _ Sam mocks himself.  _ Maybe there is a reason.  _

He sighs. Does he really deserve to get his rocks off any other way? If he hadn't sought a relationship, even for one night, with any of them -- they would all still be alive.   
  
Before he can drown in the aspersion, there's a change in the white noise of the shower spray.  _ They've entered phase two, _ Sam's brain informs him solemnly, and he snorts at himself. Ridiculous. 

There's a sharp slap of plastic, boom like one of them smacked the wall. Sam's feet have carried him closer, closer, til he's almost to the door. He draws abreast of his bed and holds his breath, listening.   
  
The angel cries out. Sam curses under his breath, palming his dick through his jeans. Castiel's voice builds in a whine, breaks off in a gasp and a cry of needy delight --  _ Dean's going down on him, holy shit. _ Sam is frozen there, three steps from the door. At some point, his protective fingers cup the bulge instead, and they begin massaging through his layers to the rhythm of Castiel's cries.   
  
He can imagine it clearly: the two of them in that tiny shower cubicle, Dean all tawny golden skin and Castiel, creamy pale. Dean's bristly head bobbing, cheeks hollowed, eyes closed and streaming, hands gripping those milk-white hips to keep them from bucking up too far. Castiel would be falling apart, eyes closed and mouth agape, catching water and not caring as he mewls, keens over Dean's handiwork. His lithe piano fingers are clutching Dean's scalp, Sam just knows, scrabbling for purchase as he sags in Dean's grip, hips working mindlessly. His face is awash with pleasure.   
  
What Sam wouldn't give to see that.   
  
When his knees give out, Sam hits the bed silently, not even a creak of springs. The small flash of pride --  _ not entirely useless, see? _ \-- is swallowed by the surge of desire that lights him up like a pinball machine. Castiel is nearing the edge of release, his yelps more frantic, and Sam is pressing down on himself in earnest, rolling his fingers. 

It’s not enough. He gives in, and slips a hand down beneath his waistband.

The angel moans Dean's name, so many things in his voice yet unsaid. Sam whines under his breath, straining to be there with him --   
  
Castiel comes with a strangled shout, sobbing his release down Dean's throat; Sam can see it like it's laid out in brilliant color, right before his eyes -- and Sam comes with him in a violent gush that blanks his vision and steals his breath. His hearing warps, Dean's coughing fit fading in and out as though they were just some old radio show and not a living, breathing wet dream.   
  
Sam exhales slowly, a shuddering rush when he can't help but gulp more air. His heart is pounding so loudly he can hear it, he can feel it in his ears.   
  
Murmured words, a bark of a laugh from Dean that translates into more coughing. After that, a moment or two of silence, during which Sam tries to remember how to breathe. His body feels too wide, flattened by the Mack truck of this entire situation. Then comes a startling, heavy thunk, and Sam hasn't even caught his breath before it's Dean's turn to make noise.   
  
The sounds are different; familiar though he's never heard them before to this degree, and so subconsciously tied into the feeling of  _ home  _ that it hurts. Sam's cock fills again so fast it's almost painful, and it does wrench a gasp from him this time, but he doubts the other two can hear. He fumbles his button open, shoves down his soiled clothing, and takes himself fully in hand, his cooling come providing a slick slide that burns in the best way. 

_ "Cas, fuck, your fucking mouth," _ Dean babbles. Sam imagines he can see it, pretends he's deserving enough to sit in there on the closed toilet lid, suffused in steam, naked and watching. Dean's warning the angel he's close, and Sam despairs, working his hand feverishly over burning skin. He wants to come with his brother; suddenly, it's all he's ever wanted.   
  
He hears Castiel say something, deep-earth dark rumble of his voice dropped even lower by the strain on his throat. Sam imagines those blue eyes looking up at Dean, pupils swallowing the iris whole.   
  
He imagines he's Dean, and those eyes are regarding him.

Imagines he’s Cas...   
  
Dean moans,  _ "Yes,"  _ and Sam nods, mouth dropped back open.  _ Yeah, Dean, I'll give you what you need.  _ He brings up his feet, flat on the mattress, and props himself up far enough to reach down with his other hand. The first touch of his finger to his entrance is a welcome shock -- His gasp mirrors Dean's, and Sam wonders hazily if Castiel is doing the same to him. 

His finger enters, a smear of his come helping the glide, and Sam takes it deep, biting his lip. The burn of too little slick just makes him hotter. His cock jumps when he wriggles the finger, draws it out and adds another, reaching just far enough to brush his prostate. He does it again, moaning despite everything. Sweat begins to bead on his skin, sticking his hair in crazy clumps all over his face.   
  
_ "Cas, fuck, you're so -- hnnngh." _ Dean sounds desperate, strung out, wired. The angel must give a goddamn heavenly blowjob, pun absolutely intended. Sam is out of his mind with desire, until just recently completely unaware that either of these men could affect him like this. Or maybe it's just them  _ together  _ that revs his engine. Regardless, Sam is losing himself in life-changing fantasies, pleasure spiraling what he's sure is happening in there out of control until he's seeing all kinds of things. 

Dean's tongue lapping at Castiel's hole. 

Castiel fucking Dean on his knees, bright red of a ball gag just visible between those plump lips. 

Dean fucking Cas while Cas eats Sam’s ass like he's starving...   
  
Sam's fucking himself back and forth between both hands, the heat and prickling spread of impending orgasm taking him higher, higher. His breath rasps in his lungs.  _ Not long now, _ he thinks, the thought echoing from so far away.  _ So close -- _   
  
With a cry that's high and sharp and absolutely glorious, Dean comes, and Sam just needs three more short tugs through that sound and a decided skate across his prostate before he's spilling all over himself again, convulsing atop the mattress. He has to clench his jaw tight to keep a savage groan from ripping free of his throat. 

Long after there's nothing left to milk free, his hips twitch mindlessly, seeking friction he doesn't need.   
  
He's still trying to settle, nerves jumping, overstimulated, when he hears the water shut off.   
  
It's like a shot of epinephrine straight to his artery. Sam's single-minded thought is that he can't be here when that door opens. It's hideously obvious what he's been doing, from the absolute lake of come cooling tacky on his stomach and thighs, to the hilarious state of his sweaty hair and red face in the mirror when he sits up. Now that the heat of the moment has passed, he's utterly ashamed, belly cramping with guilt.   
  
Sam moves like the panther his brother always seems to embody on hunts, swiping a good majority of the come from his skin with his discarded, be-crumbed flannel. He knows he's getting donut bits mixed in with the mess, and that his shower later will be altogether nasty and painful (and will probably contain orgasms three and four) -- but at the moment he's zipping up, slipping on shoes and another overshirt, grabbing his essentials and hightailing it out of there in complete silence. 

The door latch doesn't even click to give him away. It'll be like he left ages ago.   
  
Sam ducks around the motel, heading into town. He reeks of sex and fresh shame. Better make it a bar, then, and not the library.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in two early-morning hours because my brain woke me and demanded it. X_X The next one will be Destiel.
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


End file.
